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From: "Neil Elias" <neil_elias@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Love for Sale part 2 <*> (MF Rom?)
Date: Tue, 9 May 2000 06:10:07 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Love for Sale Part 2.txt" begin>
Love for Sale Part 2...sorry about the hotmail chopping it in half. The
background is explained in part 1.
Wombat_o @hotmail.com
That day I went through my lectures in a daze, and at lunchtime I gave up
the struggle and went shopping. I bought a portable CD player and a rather
ugly table lamp with a red shade. On the way back to the ferry I picked up
some packets of muesli and a carton of fresh milk. When I took them home and
rearranged the apartment I tried to see it as softer and more intimate, but
I couldn't even fool myself. A carton of milk on the mantle piece - the only
spare shelf space - is hardly romantic even when bathed in a pink light.
Still, I hoped Melanie might appreciate the effort.
The next evening she was standing outside the restaurant as I arrived, and
immediately she grabbed my arm and started pulling me down the road.
"I changed my mind and decided to cook you dinner," she said. "If we're
quick we'll just catch the ten past ferry." She started trotting, swinging
an obviously heavy bag as she went.
"Let me," I panted, reaching for the bag.
"Leave it," she replied fiercely; "it's a surprise."
We did just make the ferry, and within two minutes she was displaying all
the contents of the bag while I gave the expected oohs and ahs of
appreciation. There were two saucepans, assorted wooden spoons and whisks,
bread, some rather questionable looking meat, dried mushrooms, two bottles
of wine, and about twenty candles of all shapes and colours.
"I decided to cook at your place," she explained, "so I grabbed a whole lot
of stuff. I knew you wouldn't have anything."
The food which she eventually cooked was surprisingly good, a sort of stew
consisting mainly of red wine. We ate it on the floor surrounded by
flickering candles, and I felt rather as if I was on the set of 'The Phantom
of the Opera'. Melanie admired my CD player, but not my selection of CDs,
and roundly criticised my lamp. I weakly defended it as being useful, and
she turned on me.
"But it's so ugly," she said, and, leaping to her feet, she picked up the
lamp, took it to the door, and flung it as hard as she could. "Bad feng
shui," she announced, as if that provided a full explanation, "we'll have to
go to bed in the dark."
It was not dark, and I watched Melanie undress by candlelight. She had a
natural grace, and even simple undressing was as sensual as another woman's
strip-tease. It was the first time I had really seen her naked. Her body was
toned and slim, but her breasts were surprisingly full and her buttocks very
rounded. She was not beautiful: beauty requires a sense of repose, and
Melanie exuded restlessness, but the was the most sexy woman I have ever
seen. I crawled over to her and began to lick her legs, starting from the
toes. I moved my mouth up, stopping to kiss the back of her knees, and then
to the inside of her thighs, nibbling and sucking. When I reached her pussy
she was already wet, and I tasted the musky, savoury tang of her juices. She
groaned and pushed hard against my mouth as I sucked and flicked her
clitoris. She came with a shudder and a cry of 'go-o-o-d', and almost
collapsed on top of me.
In bed she was once again wonderful. All her characteristics seemed
magnified, and her passion and energy made the night sheer bliss. Once again
this did not last into the morning. This time it was the shouting that woke
me up.
"The fucking milk's sour," she screamed. "No fucking coffee and no fucking
cereal. Why don't you have a fucking fridge? This is the tropics, you
idiot." She threw the milk carton at the wall behind my bed, and it burst,
splashing evil smelling curds over me, the bed and the wall. She looked hard
at me and then, without another word, marched out of the door. I climbed out
of bed and crossed over to the window to see her striding down the hill to
the ferry.
I didn't know if that was the end, or even how to find out if it was. I did
not have Melanie's number, and while I could probably find it out from one
of the Lan Kwai Fong crowd, I found myself reluctant to discuss Melanie with
them. Days went by, three, four, and I started to believe that I would never
see her again. Then on the Tuesday night I went home fairly late to find my
home glowing in candlelight and Melanie waiting inside. She leapt upon me as
I entered and then waved her arms out to show me the room. Next to the bed
was a small fridge, and where my telephone had been was a new combination
fax/phone.
"You're late," she said, and then, as if her presence was entirely routine,
"I've brought you some milk."
"It's wonderful to see you," I began, but she interrupted.
"I bought the fridge because you don't want to spend every day cleaning up
milk. And it's pointless to have a phone if you're out all day. What if
someone wants to leave me a message? I've given your number to a few
people."
She got up and took a bottle of whisky from the mantle piece. The she opened
the door of the fridge and, with the flourish of a conjurer, produced a tray
of ice.
"Welcome home," she smiled, handing me a glass. Then she pulled me over to
the desk where a small rack of CDs stood next to the player. "I brought over
some real music," she said. "You choose."
I looked at the selections: Coltrane, Miles Davis, Adderley - not my taste
at all. I chose John Coltrane's 'Memphis', and the room filled with the
snorts and shrieks of his trumpet. Melanie lay back, swaying her body to the
music. She was wearing a simple white shift dress, and in the candlelight,
with her bare legs, and her long hair shading her face, she looked about
fifteen. Suddenly she bounced up and said, "let's go out and look at the
stars."
She moved towards the door, and I said, "You'll need some shoes. Remember,
snakes come out at night."
"Oh pooh," she said, but nevertheless she stopped and looked for her shoes.
"I can't find them," she said, petulantly. "I'll wear yours."
She slipped on an old pair of Reeboks and led the way outside. "Wow," she
said, "it's incredible!"
I looked up, but the sky was overcast and the stars were few. "It's not that
good," I said.
"No." She said, "the shoes. They're a perfect fit! You must be size nine
too. You see I've got big feet for a girl and you must have small feet for a
guy. It proves we're compatible."
She seized my hand and pulled me back inside and onto the bed. Then she
kicked off the shoes from both of us and lined her feet up against mine.
Hers were thinner, but the size was pretty close.
"I declare tonight foot night," she announced. "Everything we do tonight
must involve feet," and she wiggled her toes towards my groin.
We had a night that was full of bad puns ('I want to nibble your toes. I
love footuccine' narrowly outpointed something I can't quite remember about
screws and nails), good wine, and great sex. Melanie was very inventive, and
I discovered more possibilities with feet in two hours than I had in the
previous twenty years. Did you know that a woman can orgasm purely from
having her insteps nuzzled? Did you know that the sexiest way to feel
someone's ankles is behind your ears?
In the morning I awoke first. "Come on, sleepyhead," I said, nestling into
her hair and stroking her back.
"Not today," she answered, without opening her eyes. "I think I'll just stay
here for a few days; do some work and get some privacy."
I wondered fleetingly why she hadn't mentioned this last night, or even
asked me if it was okay, but that was Melanie. I made a cup of coffee and
took it over to the bed, but she didn't stir. Eventually, I set off alone to
the ferry.
As I walked from the ferry to the bus in Central I passed a shop with a
large 'SALE' sign in the window. On a whim I went in and bought two pairs of
Nike trainers, and asked the shop assistant to label them 'his' and 'hers'.
The gesture reminded me of last night, and I felt a buzz of desire pass
through me. I spent most of the day fantasising about Melanie.
When I arrived home that evening the place looked like a caricature of a
poet's garret. The desk was strewn with papers, some screwed up and some
torn, and the floor was littered with newspapers, some cut up.
"You have been busy," I said, impressed. "What have you been doing?"
"Nothing much," she replied. " I didn't expect you so soon. I'll clear up."
She began to scrunch all the papers together and stuff them into a plastic
shopping bag.
"Let me help," I said, picking up some paper.
"Leave that alone," she snapped. "It's none of your business. I made the
mess so I'll clear it up."
Stunned, I watched her pick up all the clutter. When she had crammed it all
into the bag she said, "you can fix us a drink if you like. I'll have a
wine. Let's take it outside."
I poured two white wines with ice and took them out to the paved area we
called the patio. Melanie was standing in the corner and the bag of papers
was behind her, with flames licking around the grips. She saw my surprised
expression and said, "don't worry; I thought I'd just get rid of the rubbish
while it was there. Anyway, don't you love bonfires? Let's have a drink
while you tell me about your day."
She came over to kiss me, and my misgivings melted. I remembered the shoes.
"I bought you a present," I said. "Or rather, us a present. Let me go and
get them."
"Can you bring my purse out when you come?" she asked, and I went inside.
When I came back with them, showing the 'his and hers' labels, she was not
as pleased as I had hoped. In fact she hardly even noticed the shoes, and
she went burrowing in her purse, taking out a $500 note, and pushed it into
my shirt pocket.
"I used the fax rather a lot today," she said. "That should cover it, but
let me know when you get the account."
"You don't need to pay," I said. "Anyway, it can't be that much."
She brushed aside my protests and we talked about nothing very much as the
papers burned.
"How long are you staying here?" I asked. "I might stay home with you
tomorrow."
"No!" she snapped angrily, and then caught herself. "No, I mean, I need the
quiet to get some work done." Then, seeing my hurt expression, she put her
arms around me and said, "I'm sorry, I'm just a bit tense at the moment."
My upset evaporated. Melanie could twist me round her little finger when she
wanted and could make it all feel worthwhile. And later in bed she could
make everything irrelevant except her. I was completely in love.
The next day, when I arrived home, she was gone. The room was as before,
only very tidy and clean, and in the bathroom her make-up bag and comb were
missing. Even the waste paper bin was emptied. In the yard I found the ashes
of more paper burning.
I never saw Melanie again, but the next morning I received two faxes on the
machine. The first said:
'Confirming yesterday's arrangement. We will go along with it but never try
that again. We have your address now,' and then followed my address.
The second was scrawled on a sheet of lined paper and said:
'Thanks for the loan of your place and your body. It was great. I'll be
away, but keep all the stuff - your next girl won't need to redo the room
all over again. Be happy, love Melanie.'
There was no address, not even the sending fax number. I read it over and
over and felt emptier and emptier.
That is all, really. The 'stuff' reminded me too much of Melanie, and I had
to get rid of it. I was going to throw it away in a grand gesture, but my
practical side won out and I decided to sell it. I sat down to compose the
advert for the Trading Post.
<1st attachment end>
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